


starlight and sea salt

by WingedQuill



Series: geralt sad hours 2020 [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (yes i know it's not may but there aren't any other mermaid-specific tags), Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chronic Pain, Constructed Language, Established Relationship, Family, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Memory Alteration, MerMay, Merman Geralt, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, merfolk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedQuill/pseuds/WingedQuill
Summary: Ever since the trials, Geralt's legs have hurt. An ache that never quite leaves him, an ache that flares into a blistering pain on bad days.Ever since the trials, the smell of saltwater has made Geralt want to scream, and sob, and go back home.Ever since the trials, Geralt has felt wrong in a way he can't explain.(Geralt wasn't quite human, before the trials. He's just been made to forget that.)(Chapter one written for Geralt Whump Week, Day 6: Monster)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Original Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: geralt sad hours 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811878
Comments: 73
Kudos: 299





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright! Here it is, my supremely self-indulgent Geralt-is-a-merman au that also contains my supremely self-indulgent Mermish conlang! I'll provide translations for all the Mermish in the end notes of each chapter (if you know of a better way to do this, please do let me know) as well as all my notes on the language when the story is done, if that's something people would be interested in!

Geralt can’t really remember a time in his life that he wasn’t in pain. He must have been free of it once, before the trials, when he was still a child playing knights with his mother. But those memories are distant, faded as an old dream, replaced by the crush of his real life and a persistent throbbing in his legs.

Other witchers don’t feel the same kind of pain. He asks Eskel about it, only to be met with a confused and sympathetic smile. He asks Vesemir about it, only to be met with a shuddering sigh and a shaken head.

“Probably a side-effect of the extra mutations,” he says. “I—I’m sorry, Geralt, we can try giving you some herbs for the pain?”

The herbs never really work. The sharp, stabbing pain in his legs accompanies him all through his training, and will continue to accompany him for years yet. Some days it fades down to a dull throb, but other days it feels like he’s on fire, like someone has jabbed a thousand needles into his kneecaps.

He learns to ignore it. He has to. If he dwells on it, if he falters and winces every time it flares up, it could very easily be the end of him. Just one lucky shot from a monster would be enough. Just one second.

***

When he becomes a witcher, his Path meanders closer and closer to the ocean. He’s always wanted to see it after all, has heard plenty of older witchers talk about its endless horizons and glimmering waves and soft, warm beaches. His heart tugs when he hears those stories, an ache building and burning in his chest. A yearning.

And now that he’s free and directionless, he figures he might as well head there. So he takes contracts as he heads towards the sea, easy monsters for a young witcher, ghouls and drowners and the odd wraith. Maybe his first big fight will be against a kraken of some sort, that would be interesting.

He could slay some giant ship-eater, earn a big sack of coin, and travel down the coast. Charter a boat and make his way to the islands. Do whatever he wants.

He nudges his horse into a gallop as soon as the sharp scent of salt fills the air, excitement mounting in his chest as he flies up a hill and towards the faint sound of crashing waves. It sounds like soft thunder rolling through the air after a summer storm. It sounds like destiny.

The hill reaches its peak and he sees the ocean.

It spreads out and out and _out_ in all directions, a wide green blanket broken only by tiny bursts of white seafoam. Gulls scream in the sky overhead, wheeling down towards the water and snatching up fish from the surface. Wind whips against Geralt’s face, peeling his hair away from his sweaty neck.

It’s beautiful. It’s awe-inspiring, it’s everything the older witchers said it would be, and—

And his heart _hurts._ It aches like someone he loves has died, like something important has been taken from him, like a childhood dream has crumbled into ash. A sob breaks out of his throat and he claps a hand over his mouth. _Witchers don’t show their emotions. They can’t show their emotions. Remember that._

But there are no humans around to judge him so he lets himself slide from Roach’s back, hitting the ground with a yelp as his legs flare with pain. He staggers over to a scraggly, twisting tree growing out of the sandy soil and slumps down against it, breathing heavy. Tears burn in his eyes, clog up his nose. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to _be._

Why is he so upset—he doesn’t—he doesn’t _understand—_

He feels like he’s missing something, something important, something that would explain why he’s crying like a child at the mere sight of the ocean. But as soon as he has that thought, as soon as he tries to grab on to it and think, it slips out of his mind, leaving him confused and shuddering as the sobs roll over him like waves.

_Deep breaths. Deep breaths in and out. Control yourself._

He picks himself up and stumbles back over to Roach, each step feeling like he’s treading on shattered glass. He doesn’t let himself turn to look at the ocean again, no matter how much it tugs at him. Just swings Roach’s head back around and heads inland again. Riding away from the ache.

***

He doesn’t come back to the sea for another seventy years.

***

He tells Jaskier about the pain a few years into their friendship and a few months into their relationship, when he wakes up one morning and can’t move his legs. Every little shift sends a wave of fire up his body, and he has to bite into the pillow to stop himself from screaming.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, stirring beside him. Even the faint movement of the mattress has Geralt biting down harder. Jaskier’s voice is thick with sleep but rapidly clearing, worry threading through his words. “Geralt, hey, what’s wrong? ‘S the kikimora bite acting up?”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Legs,” he groans.

“Your legs are hurt?” Jaskier says, and the worry is bleeding through his voice now, infecting every part of his being.

“Mmhmm,” he says, and his lungs are getting tighter and tighter, seizing with the pain.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Jaskier gasps and he’s up with a flash, yanking back the covers from Geralt’s bare legs. He shivers as the air hits his skin. It feels _wrong_ in a way he can’t articulate.

“Did the kikimora land on you funny?” he asks, running his hands down Geralt’s legs as he feels for contusions, broken bones, misaligned tendons. Geralt shudders at the feeling of his too-warm, too rough fingers, burying his head further in the pillow. Normally Jaskier’s touch is soothing in situations like this, but now it just compounds the burning.

“Stop,” he grunts, and Jaskier’s snatches his fingers back instantly.

“Not the kikimora,” he manages to say, dragging the air through his aching lungs. “Just—legs get like this sometimes.”

Jaskier makes a soft sympathetic sound.

“What can I do to help then?” he asks. “Potion, herbs, anything?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“Doesn’t work. Just keep the blankets off. Pressure makes it worse.”

“Okay. Alright” The bed shifts as Jaskier crawls back up and settles next to Geralt’s head. His fingers find their way into Geralt’s hair, soft and hesitant, gently stroking over the crown of his head.

“Is this alright?” Jaskier asks and, loathe though Geralt is to admit it, the external stimuli does drag his mind away from the pain, if only a little.

“Mmhmm.”

“Good. Just—focus on me and try and go back to sleep, if you can.”

“M’kay.” Gods, he sounds like a child.

Jaskier starts humming under his breath and Geralt focuses all his attention on him, on the sound of the melody, on the gentle, consistent strokes running through his hair. The pain still burns through him but his legs feel like distant, unimportant parts of himself.

_Lovolulu, genevoga._

“Rest, Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

***

Jaskier is always ready to help him after that, to take his mind off the pain with gentle words and touches, to let Geralt lean on his shoulders sometimes, when they’re walking back into town after particularly difficult hunts. He even stops protesting when Geralt doesn’t let him take turns on Roach, seemingly understanding that Geralt’s insistence on riding her isn’t born from possessiveness.

Geralt is grateful to him, in an aching, nameless way. No one in his life has taken his pain seriously. Even Vesemir gave up on helping him, when the herbs didn’t work. He was left to stumble through it alone, to gnash his teeth together and keep walking when his knees were full of needles, to sob silently into pillows in shitty inns when the pain kept him from sleeping.

“My sister had a bad arm, growing up,” Jaskier tells Geralt once, as they sit quietly together in an inn, eating their fill after a contract. The pain is building in Geralt’s calves, cramping his muscles and making his skin feel like tightened leather. “Twisted it wrong in a fall and it never quite worked the same again. She always said warm water helped. Didn’t make the pain go away entirely, but it lessened it, somewhat. Loosened up her muscles a bit. Do you think—?”

“I’m willing to try,” Geralt says with a shrug. He’s willing to try practically anything.

They finish their meal and Jaskier slips out of the room, heading downstairs to order a bath. Geralt hobbles over to the bed and sinks into it, staring up at the ceiling and feeling, for a reason that he can’t put his finger on, that it’s _wrong_ somehow. That he shouldn’t be here.

He shakes the feeling away. Too much time camping recently, if he thinks being indoors is wrong.

Jaskier comes in with a few servants, lugging a tub and several buckets of hot water, and Geralt sits up and does his best to look like his legs aren’t on fire. Based on the concerned looks Jaskier keeps shooting him, he doesn’t think he’s succeeding.

The tub is filled and the servants thanked in a matter of minutes, and then Jaskier is offering him an arm.

“Come on,” he says, his brow pinched. “Lean on my shoulder, there you go, dear heart.”

Geralt leans against him and breathes. The air is hot and dry and _wrong._ They stumble over to the tub, and each step feels like a mile.

“You’re doing so well,” Jaskier says, brushing his fingers over Geralt’s arm. “So good.”

The praise would send a bolt of heat rushing through him in any other context, but right now Jaskier just sounds _worried,_ and the pain building and rolling through him makes it difficult to think of other things.

“Sit down, yeah on the edge of the tub, just like that.”

Jaskier’s hands flutter over him, tugging off Geralt’s shirt, boots. When he starts working at Geralt’s pants, Geralt turns his head away, biting his lip to stop himself from cursing. The feeling of the fabric _moving_ and _scraping_ against him sends jolts of lightning racing up his spine.

“Just a moment, darling,” Jaskier says, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s jaw as he works. “Just a moment, can you lift your hips for me?”

Geralt lifts his hips. Stars explode behind his eyes.

Jaskier pulls his trousers and smalls down, and then rests a hand against Geralt’s heaving back.

“Into the tub now, that’s it, there you go.”

Jaskier guides him down, settles him in the warm water. Geralt closes his eyes. For a moment, the pain recedes, pulling back like a retreating wave. Gods, Jaskier is a _genius._

And then.

Like a tidal wave.

The pain slams back into him, worse than he’s ever felt in his life. His legs are on _fire,_ blistering and burning and surely they must be _dissolving,_ had the servants put something in the water? Some kind of potion to melt away his flesh? Surely that’s the only explanation for the agony.

He _screams._

Jaskier’s hands are on him, and his voice is in his ear, high and strained, but Geralt can’t pick out the individual words. He doesn’t—he doesn’t speak—

“La mevoga lu!” he hollers, thrashing frantically in the water. “La mevoga lu, la—la zebevoga!”

There are hands on him, hoisting and grabbing and _twisting,_ tearing him in _half,_ tugging his tail apart.

Lovolu looks frantically down at where they’re tugging at him and sees smooth skin and feet and—

He screams again.

***

Everything is floating around him. He’s drifting on his back in a calm bay, watching the stars, flicking his fins back and forth to keep him afloat. This is his first time seeing the surface, and he can hardly breathe for how beautiful the sky is.

***

“Geralt?”

Geralt’s head pounds like he’s been chugging Cat all night, and he buries his head deeper into the pillow, letting out a groan that sounds pathetic even to himself.

“Geralt, love, please wake up.”

Jaskier. His voice is all raspy and watery, like he’s been crying for a long, long time. Geralt’s eyes flick open immediately, and his hands press down on the mattress, trying to heave himself into a seated position. What happened? What’s wrong with Jaskier?

His arms tremble and give out immediately, sending him crashing back down into the mattress. A jolt of pain shoots through him, from his fingers to his toes, and he gasps, trying to curl in on himself.

What’s wrong with _him?_

“Don’t try to move,” Jaskier says, and he’s _still_ crying, Geralt can tell from the hitch in his voice. He ignores Jaskier’s order to roll onto his side, twisting his neck so that he can see him. He looks dreadful, all red eyes and dark circles, hair sticking up in a dozen different directions.

“Hey,” he croaks. Gods, his throat is as dry as a desert and as prickly as a thornbush.

“Hey,” Jaskier replies with a watery laugh. He reaches down and runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, smoothing it back ever-so-gently. “You gave me quite a scare.”

“What happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Hmm we were. Eating. Dinner, right? After that contract for the ghouls?”

Jaskier’s fingers spasm against his skin, but he doesn’t pause in his stroking. A purr rumbles in Geralt’s chest, and a smile cracks over Jaskier’s face when he hears it.

“Yes, we were,” he says. “But then—your legs were flaring up, do you remember that?”

“A bit. Were just a bit achy.”

“Just—” Jaskier rubs at his face. “Right. It—it got worse. Quite a bit worse, you couldn’t really walk all that well. So I suggested putting you in a bath, do you remember that?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“Okay. That’s—that’s probably for the best, you—you started seizing, almost as soon as you were in the water. Or—that’s what it looked like at least, you were thrashing around a lot. And screaming.”

That would certainly explain the pain in his throat. But it doesn’t explain why he doesn’t remember a lick of it. Unease creeps over his neck. He doesn’t like the idea of losing time like that.

Jaskier bites his lip.

“You were shouting something,” he says. “In—do you speak another language, Geralt?”

“Bit of Nilfgaardian,” he mumbles, testing out his arms again. This time they hold, and he carefully levers himself into a seated position. “For when I need to take contracts down south.”

But why the fuck would he be screaming in Nilfgaardian?”

“Right, yeah, that makes sense. But um—you weren’t speaking Nilfgaardian. Or Common. Or Elder. I don’t know _what_ it was, but it definitely wasn’t any of those.”

The unease swells into dread.

“I was speaking a language I don’t even know?”

Jaskier nods. He reaches down and takes Geralt’s hand. Geralt squeezes back, as tight as he can with his still trembly muscles.

“I—I’d like to bring you to a mage,” Jaskier says. “See if we can figure out what’s going on, okay? With your memory and—and maybe with your pain as well. Alright?”

He’s never visited a mage, in all these years. Not after being told by the mages at Kaer Morhen that there was nothing that they could do for him.

But speaking an unknown language…that scares him. Losing time scares him.

Scaring Jaskier scares him.

“Alright,” he says. He brings Jaskier’s hand up to his lips, brushing a kiss across the skin. “Alright. We’ll go to a mage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mermish translations:
> 
> "Lovolulu, genevoga" = "Darling Starlight, sleep."
> 
> "La mevoga lu" = "Get me out!"
> 
> "La zebevoga" = "Let me go!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! This chapter has quite a bit more Mermish, so I decided to use linked endnotes every few lines for the translation, using the tutorial found [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4579026?style=disable&view_full_work=true) Lemme know how you feel about this system!
> 
> As a general note: Merfolk all have meaningful names, given to them on their tenth birthday. This will come up a bit in future chapters, but Geralt's Mermish name is Lovolu, which means "starlight" and his sister's name is Naganago which means "current" or, more literally, "one who flows."
> 
> Also, CW: This is the chapter where all the body horror and mutilation tags come into play. Reader discretion is advised.

The pain in his legs has gotten worse, these past few days. It’s like the forgotten bath and subsequent agony has shaken something loose inside his bones, crushed something invisible beneath his skin and left him to burn. He hides it as best he can, gritting his teeth and tightening his hands around Roach’s reins whenever it flares. Breathing the fire into his lungs and trying his best to ignore it.

But Jaskier, of course, can tell. He watches Geralt throughout the long days of travel, worry creasing his brow, strumming his lute when the pain reaches its peaks. It must be showing on his face, Geralt thinks, some miniscule muscle in his jaw.

At night, when the soreness settles into his legs and makes them its own, Jaskier curls up behind him, one arm slung across his chest, the other pressed against his back so that Jaskier’s fingers can tangle in his hair. He hums old lullabies in Geralt’s ears, soothing him as the flames burn hotter and hotter and hotter. When the night reaches its darkest point, his hand slips out of Geralt’s hair and settles on his cheek, thumbing away the tears that Geralt only lets fall when he is sure no one can see them.

Jaskier never speaks, at night. Geralt is grateful for that. He thinks that trying to put words to this thing will just break something else inside of him.

***

They’re heading to Rinde, where rumor has it a rogue mage as set up shop as the de facto mayor. Jaskier is worried about entrusting Geralt’s safety to someone outside the bounds of the Brotherhood, but Geralt is more worried about getting involved with the politics of Aretuza or Ban Ard. So a rogue mage it is.

The last night before they—hopefully, hopefully, _hopefully—_ figure out what’s wrong with Geralt, they’re sitting in front of a warm campfire, Jaskier perched on a log, Geralt sitting on the ground between his knees. Jaskier is gathering his hair into neat bunches, braiding it and unbraiding it again and again. It’s soothing to both of them. Comfortable. It drags Geralt’s mind away from his legs, if only a little, and it gives Jaskier something to worry over that isn’t his pain.

“Are you scared?” Geralt asks him, closing his eyes.

Jaskier sighs, pausing in his motions to dip his lips to the crown of Geralt’s head.

“Yes,” he murmurs against Geralt’s hair. “I’m terrified.”

“Me too.” Because he is. He’s terrified that the mage won’t know what’s wrong with him. Or if she does, she won’t know how to fix him. That, whatever this ever-worsening thing is, it’ll someday grow strong enough that he won’t be able to walk. Won’t be able to drag his mind away from the pain.

Or that he wasn’t strong enough to survive the extra trials. That his death sentence was just a bit more prolonged.

That he’ll die in agony.

That he’ll leave Jaskier to mourn him.

“Whatever happens,” Jaskier says, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s chest. “You have me, alright? You have me till the end of the world.”

“We’ve already been to the end of the world,” Geralt laughs. It doesn’t sound particularly joyful.

“Well then, you know I’m good for my word.”

***

The mage—Yennefer of Vengerberg_is eager to meet them both, eager to hear their story. She’s all burning violet eyes and lilac, holding herself like a warrior and a healer all at once. The town loves her, from what Geralt’s heard. She’s apparently been quite helpful in a number of departments.

Mostly sex charms, apparently. But she’s also banished a plague from the borders of this town, helped several farmers with their failing crops, and provided protective glamours to a number of non-human residents seeking their fortunes in the wider world.

“The famous White Wolf at my door,” she says, circling Geralt in a way that vaguely reminds him of a hungry shark. “What brings you here?”

He takes Jaskier’s hand in his, and he tells her of his shattered-but-whole legs, of his burning lungs. Jaskier chimes in with the story about the bath, the words screamed out in an unknown language. Her brow gets more and more furrowed, her eyes gleam brighter and brighter.

“The legs could very well be a physical ailment,” she says when they’re done. “But I’d like to scan you for curses in either case.”

She rolls up her sleeves, shakes out her hands.

“Right now?” Jaskier squeaks.

“Why not?” Yennefer asks, raising an eyebrow. “Why wait?”

Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s hand, takes a deep breath. The fear squirms inside him like a living thing, and he beats it down, just like he does before contracts, just like he did before he told Jaskier he loved him.

“Alright,” he says. Yennefer gestures to the seat across from her and raises her hands to his temples.

“This should just feel a bit warm,” she says, closing her eyes. “Stop me if it starts burning.”

“Burning?” Jaskier protests, but the warmth is already rushing over Geralt, pulses of chaos that send shivers running down his spine. It only lasts for a minute before Yennefer is pulling away, a frown curving over her lips.

“You’re brimming with transformation magic,” she says.

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt says, feeling very cold now that her chaos is gone. She shakes her head.

“I’ve met mutants before,” she says. “You’re nothing like them. This is—far deeper. Far more consuming. It’s even stronger than the spells they put on us at Aretuza, and those aren’t light.”

“He went through extra trials,” Jaskier says, putting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “After the first set. Could that—could that be it?”

Yennefer hums.

“Maybe,” she says. “Though I’m hoping you can tell me yourself, Geralt. After I remove the memory curse.”

That hits him like a sledgehammer to the chest, forcing the air out of his lungs in a single blow.

“Memory curse?” he repeats stupidly.

“Yes. A strong one too—it didn’t just erase the memories, it created entirely new ones in their place.”

“How—when—?”

“Up until age—ten, I’d guess? Eleven?”

His entire childhood, up to the trials. The room is spinning around him, too small and too airless. Jaskier leans into his side, wrapping his arm around Geralt’s waist.

“Breathe,” he orders, and Geralt does, short and fluttering. His childhood is a lie. His childhood is a lie, and perhaps the truth could explain the pain in his legs, the burning in his lungs, the mysterious language choked out in agony.

“Break it,” he gasps. “Right now. Do it.”

“Geralt, maybe we should think this through,” Jaskier says, his fingers pressing into Geralt’s side. Geralt shakes his head.

“I need to know,” he says. Jaskier drops his head to Geralt’s shoulder, clings to him just a bit tighter.

“Okay,” he says at last. “Alight. If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

“Then let’s do it,” Jaskier says, injecting a bit of false cheer into his voice. Yennefer smiles at them, almost approvingly.

“Fortunately, whatever mage placed it wasn’t trained at Aretuza,” she says, placing her hands on Geralt’s temples. “It should be relatively easy to break. Just close your eyes. Empty your head as much as you can.”

Geralt does as she asks, letting his mind drift into meditation, latching on to the waterfall he always pictures when he needs to empty himself out. He can hear Yennefer murmuring something at the edge of his awareness. A chant of some sort. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the memories crash over him like a wave.

***

“Ganago ma nule!” Lovolu yells, swishing back and forth in front of his mama, not quite able to keep the excitement out of his limbs. There’s a whole shipwreck just half an hour away from their pod, and the idea of exploring it sends his heart racing. “Neze, Navovu…”

“Lezenago, Lovolulu,” Mama chides, though a fond smile creeps over her face as she watches him swim in quick little arcs.

“Naganago nugobu,” he says, pointing accusingly at his older sister.[1]

Mama raises an eyebrow.

“Naganagogu vabogelogo,” she reminds him. He huffs. He _knows_ Naganago is older, she won’t ever shut up about it.

“Zalunulo!”

“Zo?” She can’t quite keep the laugh out of her voice.

“Za!”[2]

He flicks his tail to demonstrate, shooting up ten feet before arcing back down towards his family. He twists back and forth, zooming through the water in tight spirals. He _is_ faster than his sister, and he knows it.

“Za, za!” Mama laughs. Lovolu grins, chirping in triumph as he summersaults past his sister. She rolls her eyes at him, but he knows she’s amused, deep down.

“Za, movo. Megegune. ”

He wrinkles his nose. He’s not a _minnow._

“Mege mo bo,” he protests as she wraps her tail around his and tugs him closer.

“Be?”

“Be!” [3]

“Ge movo?” she asks, running her fingers through his hair. He considers carefully. What is he, if not her little minnow? He runs his tongue over his teeth, pointed and sharp. There!

“Leve mo!” he declares, snapping his jaws like the tiger sharks he likes to sneak off to pet. She grins and uncurls her tail, holding him away from her body.

“Leve?” she asks. “Lezenago.”

“Lezena!” He squirms in her grip. “Megela!”[4]

He gnashes his teeth again to prove his point. He can bite and he _will_ bite.

“Megevola bo.” Mama twists her tail so that he’s hanging upside down.

“La!” he insists, trying to curl up to reach her tail.

“La bo. Nuvole, za? Megenagozu nuge bo.”

He stops struggling, letting himself hang from her grip. Hope blooms in his chest. He couldn’t go see the shipwreck if he bit, but—

“Zo nu?”

She chirps warmly and uncurls her tail from his, flipping herself upside-down so that she’s eye-level with him.

“Nuvo,” she confirms. “Naganagogu ve.”[5]

He cheers in excitement, flipping over and racing towards his sister.

“Naganagogu! Naganagogu!” He darts in quick circles around her

“Za, za,” she says.

“Naganagogu, nuzega! Nuzega, nuzega, nuzega—”

“Za!” Her tail snakes out and grabs his, snatching him from his frantic spiral.[6]

He hears two sets of soft chirps from behind them, his parents greeting each other. He drapes himself over Naganago’s shoulder and waves at Da, and the baby he’s bouncing in his arms. She doesn’t have a name yet—she won’t get one until she’s ten, like Lovolu.

“Ganago ma nuze!” he shouts.

“Zumubu,” Da laughs, wrapping his tail around Ma’s. “Malebavega.”

 _Be careful, be careful._ It’s always the same. But Lovolu isn’t sure what there is to be careful _about._ The warriors chased off a school of sharks last month, sure, but none have been spotted since then, despite the almost constant patrols. No bad currents in this part of the ocean either, or rival pods.

“La!” he shouts. It’s easier to go along with their worry than to argue against it.

“La,” Naganago agrees. “Zuvoga, megegu.”

“Mege mo bo!” he insists, squirming out of his sister’s grip and flying out ahead. She makes a noise of protest and follows him, yelling at him to wait up. The soft farewell chirps of his parents shimmer through the ocean behind them as they swim towards the shipwreck.[7]

***

It’s peaceful.

***

It’s beautiful.

***

And he feels so free, and he doesn’t even realize it.

***

And then—

And then—

***

Lovolu turns their swim to the shipwreck into a race with a single boastful challenge, and Naganago accepts, because of _course_ she does. Their Ma agreed that her little brother was faster than her, and that obviously cannot stand. Lovolu can beat Naganago with his fins alone, he knows. He truly is the fastest in his family. But he also knows of a slight current near the surface, something that will turn his already-faster swimming into an unstoppable blur. So he flicks his tail and soars upwards, ignoring Naganago’s yelp of surprise below him.

“Lezenago!” she yells at him.

“Go bo,” he replies, feeling the current catch his hair, then his torso. “Mazo zubu, zuvo—”

_“Lovolu!”_

Her call goes from chiding to terrified in a heartbeat. He twists around, fear rising in his throat, instinctively raising his tail to try and swim downwards.

He feels the net before he sees it.

It surrounds him in an instant, pinning his arms and his fins to his torso, tangling up his tail even as he thrashes against it. The ropes dig into his skin and his scales, and he _screams,_ a high-pitched, frantic wail that will have the whole pod swimming this way. But the net is hoisting upwards, dragging him up towards the surface.

“Naganago!” he shrieks. “Naganago, la vavega!”[8]

His sister’s face stares up at him in terror, her mouth opened in a scream as she swims upward as fast as she can.

But then, she’s never been fast.

He breaks the surface of the water with a strangled gasp, his gills closing up as his little-used lungs start working. He struggles in the net, trying to pull it away from himself, but it’s just as useless in the air as it was in the water.

There’s a cry of triumph, and then he’s hoisted backward and dumped on the ground, yelping as it smacks hard against his skin. He tries to shove himself into a seated position, but the net keeps him pinned to the ground.

Voices all around him, speaking a language he doesn’t understand. Something nudges against his shoulder, rolling him over to lie on his back. Silhouettes crowd above him, blocking out the sun. _Humans._

“La zebevoga,” he tries to snarl, tries to scare. It comes out as a whimper.

He thinks they laugh in response. Or maybe it’s a roar. He can’t tell. It’s a booming, ringing noise, so different from the soft chittering of his family. One of them turns to the others, says something, showing all his teeth. Two of the men grab at the net, tugging Lovolu away from the side of the ship. He thrashes against them, screaming and wailing.

“La zebevoga!” he howls. “La zebevoga, la—gavovu, navovu, la vavega, la vavega, _neze!”_ [9]

They make that booming noise again, and one of them kneels down in front of him, shifting the net over his face. He tries to bite at the man’s fingers, but he pulls his hand back quick as anything, before bringing it cracking down against Lovolu’s face. Lovolu’s head smacks against the ground, and he lies there, dazed and sobbing as the man grabs at the net again. He yanks it away from Lovolu’s mouth and shoves a wad of cloth past his lips, muffling his cries.

There are a thousand horror stories dancing through his head, tales that the older kids liked to whisper, late at night by the glow of their fins. The stories that he never thought could be true, because they were just so awful. Fishermen cutting merfolk in half and selling their tails as delicacies. Or eating them alive.

He always thought they were just stories, but the fishermen are tying him to the mast of the ship, cackling as he struggles uselessly against the net, the gag, the air around him, and why—why else would they take a mer? What other reason could they have for this?

He looks out past the jeering men, scanning the waves for any sign of his pod, but no one comes for him.

***

The ship flies back towards shore, sails far too full for the wind—it must be magic, Lovolu’s sure of it—moving faster than any mer could hope to swim. Lovolu feels the hope drain from him, bit by bit, as the sun dries his scales into a painful crust. Even if Naganago swam back to their parents as fast as she could, even if the whole pod came flying at the sound of his screams—there’s no way they could catch up to the fishermen. No way they could take Lovolu back.

His screams have quieted to hitching sobs by the time they drop anchor, and while he struggles against the fishermen when they heft the net into the air, it’s more because he can’t _not_ fight, rather than any genuine hope of victory. They dump him unceremoniously on a dinghy that they row back to shore, and then they’re carrying him out of the water, away from any chance of rescue.

He slumps uselessly in his bonds, crying silently as the fishermen carry him farther and farther away from the lapping waves. They’re chattering away as they toss him between them, transferring his weight from one pair of shoulders to another. He winds up slung over someone’s back, head hanging down towards the ground. He lifts it, struggling against the weight of his own body, and looks at the ocean for as long as he can.

***

There’s a box waiting for them. It’s big and windowless, and the men hitch two stomping, furious beasts to the posts jutting from the front of it. Coin changes hands, accompanied by loud chatter and hands clapped to backs. One man heaves open the doors to the box.

Lovolu knows that if he goes in there, he’ll never see the sun again.

But he can do nothing but thrash his tail weakly, uselessly, _pointlessly._

They heft him into the box and slam the doors shut.

He hears the beasts outside scream, high and loud and jittery, and then the box starts moving.

***

He doesn’t know how much time passes, in the jolting, awful dark. Sometimes the box slams to a stop, and a man comes in, pulls out the gag, and tips water into Lovolu’s dry mouth. They don’t give him food though. He doesn’t think they want to get too close to his teeth.

It’s darkness and hunger and fear, and he cries until every piece of the ocean is gone from him.

***

And then someone is grabbing him, pulling him out of the box. And this is it _they’regonnakillhimthey’regonnaeathimthey’regonna—_

They carry him into the cold and shivers rack over his body. He tries to fall into himself. If he’s not here, the cold can’t hurt him. The hunger can’t hurt him. _They_ can’t hurt him when they start cutting, tearing, _eating._

There are more men here, handing over coin to the two fishermen who stayed with the box as it carried him away from the sea. These men are different then the fishermen. They don’t make that awful booming sound when they see him. They don’t show their teeth. They just scoop him into their arms and carry him towards a towering stone building, every step slow and deliberate.

They smell like blood. Death. Something old and toxic.

He doesn’t even try to fight against their grip. He doesn’t think it would do him any good. It would be like a minnow trying to fight a shark when it’s already between the teeth.

They take him into a room that smells even stronger of death, of that awful, toxic thing. He chokes on it, trembling as they unwind the net from his skin. They make displeased noises at each other, one of them pinching at the skin of his arm, another running a finger over his ribs

 _Not fat enough for them,_ he thinks, wrapping his arms around himself. Would they keep him alive longer? Shove fish down his throat until he was big enough to eat?

“La zebevoga,” he whimpers, as soon as they pull the gag out of his mouth. “La zebevoga, neze.”

“Novavoga,” a voice rumbles, and he snaps his head up. It was fumbling and uncertain, but that was Mermish. One of his captors speaks Mermish.

“Neze,” he sobs. Maybe he can get them to _listen_ to him. “Neze, zeza nule.”

“Novavoga,” the man says again, running his fingers through Lovolu’s hair. Lovolu shudders at the touch, and he immediately pulls away. “Lelelagola.”

_“Neze—”_

One of the other men puts his hand on the Mermish speaker’s shoulder, muttering something into his ear. The Mermish speaker nods, his face tight and pained.

“Lelelagola,” he repeats, a useless platitude. Especially since the other men have started tightening straps around Lovolu’s arms, waist, tail. “Lele—”[10]

The other men push him out of the room, slam the door in his face, and turn their attention to Lovolu.

***

Later, much later, when Lovolu is a witcher named Geralt, desperately trying to make sense of what had been done to him, he’ll recognize the Mermish speaker as Vesemir.

***

They start with a drink of some sort, tilting his head back and forcing his jaws open. It spreads through his body almost instantly, sharp and tingling, leaving a horrid numbness in its wake. And then one nods to another, and picks up a knife.

***

Time passes in snatches.

He’s aware of the ceiling, mostly. He traces the stains with his eyes as they work on him. It reminds him of the underwater caves he always liked to explore with Naganago, the interesting patterns they always used to find in the mineral deposits.

He doesn’t think it hurts as much as it should. But there’s a pressure on his tail, awful and persistent and _building,_ like one of those caves has collapsed onto him, pinning his flippers beneath a mountain of rock. There’s pressure, and there’s air where there shouldn’t be, sensation where there shouldn’t be.

When they take their hands off him for a second, busying themselves with something across the room, he forces himself up on his elbows. He already knows, deep down, what they’ve done. But he needs to see.

His breath freezes in his throat.

His tail, it’s—

His _tail—_

They’ve cut it in _half,_ carved a long line from flippers to waist, and yanked those halves apart, exposing his twitching muscles to the air. Blood pools on the table below him, and scales are scattered across the floor, glinting faintly in the dim light.

A breath punches out of his lungs. Another. Another. He keens, low at first, but then loud, desperate, a sound halfway between a scream and a sob. One of the men grunts something, and stalks back over to him, pressing his shoulders back against the table. His chest shakes under the man’s hand, breath after breath whooshing out of him. There isn’t enough air in his lungs, there isn’t enough air in the _world_ , they’ve torn him in half, they’ve torn him in half, they’ve torn him—

“Bobevoga!” he howls as they force his head still. “Bobevoga, la zebevoga, _neze, neze, neze, bobevo—!”_ [11]

Another drink goes down his throat and his panic becomes a distant, unimportant part of himself.

***

There are two men still working at his mutilated tail, though he doesn’t know what more they can _do_ to him, at this point. Cutting chunks away, probably. Filleting him.

Another is bent over his head, working a slim knife into his throat. He makes a triumphant noise and withdraws, clutching a tiny ball of tissue dripping with light. And Lovolu knows that he’s just lost whatever it is that makes him glow, that fills him up with starlight and moonbeams, that marks him as one of his pod.

That shouldn’t hurt as much as losing his tail. It shouldn’t even compare.

But the tears start flowing down his cheeks anyway.

***

They flip him over on his stomach and carve away the fins on his back, they massage his clenched fists open and cut the webbing between his fingers, they tear into the skin of his neck and ruin his gills. At one point, he can feel something sliding up his tail, can hear a soft _plink, plink, plinking_ on the ground, and he realizes that they’re shucking away each and every one of his scales.

He isn’t a merman anymore. Even if he escapes this place, even if someone bursts through the door right here and now and _stops_ this, he’ll never be able to go home. He’ll never be able to swim again, he’ll never be able to curl up in Mama’s embrace, he’ll never be able to explore the shipwreck.

He’ll never be able to hug Naganago again.

They start chanting something above him, and shove more drinks into his mouth, and that’s when the pain finally, finally starts.

***

He doesn’t know how long it goes on for.

He doesn’t know how many times he sobs for his parents, his sisters.

He doesn’t know how many times the men ignore him.

***

When he wakes up, there are even more humans crowded around him, staring down at him with something that might be awe. The awe only grows when they get a good look at his eyes, elbowing past each other to peer into them. He whimpers, shrinking back against the table.

“Lelelago,” one of the men says. The Mermish speaker. “Lelelago. Lelelavo, nenevenago.”

How could this possibly be _okay?_ They’ve broken him, they’ve _shattered_ him, they’ve torn out every important part of him and left him to die on this table.

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer, just turns his face to the side and prays for a killing blow. Hands ghost over him, undoing the straps holding him down. Forcing him upright. He squirms against them. How could they possibly hope to move him when he’s bleeding—

He looks down.

—out?

His tail is gone. Not mutilated, not twitching heaps of muscle, _gone._ But they haven’t left him with nothing. They’ve replaced it. Remolded it.

They’ve given him legs.

“Lelelago,”[12] the Mermish speaker insists, _lies,_ gesturing to said legs. There’s an awful ringing in Lovolu’s ears, the sound that water makes when he dives too deep. And he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to claw his way back to safer waters, to make himself okay. The men crowd closer. His legs twitch at his command. He opens his mouth, and the ringing comes pouring out of him. 

***

He screams for three days straight.

In the end, the men—the _witchers—_ decide to make one last alteration. They cut away his memories as easily as they’d cut away everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1  
> "I want to go to the shipwreck! Please, Mama...."  
> "It's dangerous, dear Lovolu."  
> "Naganago went!"[return to text]
> 
> 2  
> "Dear Naganago is older."  
> "I'm faster!"  
> "That so?"  
> "Yes!"[return to text]
> 
> 3  
> "Yes, you are. My little minnow."  
> "I'm not a minnow."  
> "No?"  
> "No!"[return to text]
> 
> 4  
> "What are you?"  
> "I'm a shark!"  
> "A shark? That's dangerous."  
> "I'm dangerous! I'll bite!" [return to text]
> 
> 5  
> "You won't bite."  
> "Will!"  
> "Won't. You want to go, right? Biters don't get to go."  
> "I can go?"  
> "You can go. With dear Naganago."[return to text]
> 
> 6  
> "Dear Naganago! Dear Naganago!"  
> "Yes, yes."  
> "Dear Naganago, let's go! Let's go, let's go, let's go—"  
> "Yes!"  
> [return to text]
> 
> 7  
> "We're going to the shipwreck!"  
> "I heard. Be careful."  
> "We will!"  
> "We will. Come on, little minnow."  
> "I'm not a minnow!"  
> [return to text]
> 
> 8  
> "That's dangerous!"  
> "It's not. I've come here before, come—"  
> "Lovolu!"  
> "Naganago! Naganago, help me!"  
> [return to text]
> 
> 9  
> "Let me go."  
> "Let me go! Let me go, let—Papa, Mama, help me, help me, please!"  
> [return to text]
> 
> 10  
> "Let me go. Let me go, please."  
> "Hush."  
> "Please. Please, I wanna go home."  
> "Hush. It'll be okay."  
> "Please—"  
> "It'll be okay. It'll—"  
> [return to text]
> 
> 11  
> "Stop! Stop, let me go, please, please, please, sto—!"  
> [return to text]
> 
> 12  
> "It's okay. It's okay. You're okay, little one."  
> "It's okay."  
> [return to text]


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *quietly upping the chapter count* nothing to see here :)
> 
> There's only one line of Mermish in this chapter, at the very beginning, so here's the translation for that:  
> "La zebevoga. Neze, la—" means "Let me go. Please, let—"

Lovolu wakes up on the floor, curled on his side and gasping burning, too-dry air. He scrambles away from the hands on his back, swallowing down a wave of bile at the sensation of cloth sliding over his legs—legs that aren’t supposed to _be here,_ aren’t supposed to be attached to him, and he wants them gone, he wants them gone, he wants—

“La zebevoga,” he begs, just like he has every time one of the strange, yellow-eyed men has come into his room. “Neze, la—”

“Geralt,” whispers a voice, choked with tears. He freezes. Ceases in his frantic movements, and turns to face the intruder.

It’s Jaskier.

And just like that, he life—his decades-long life, his real life, his _fake_ life, the life he was _never fucking supposed to live—_ slides into place next to the life of a child whose biggest concern was winning a race against his sister. A child that swam up to the surface just to count the stars he was named after, a child that spent hours teaching his pet octopus how to do loop-de-loops, a child that sobbed for his parents as the knife carved into him again and again and again.

A child that died nearly a century ago.

He’s alive again.

And his memories aren’t old, aren’t faded into the fuzz of time. They feel fresh as a still-weeping wound, like just minutes ago he was sobbing in a featureless cell, just days ago he was under the knife, just weeks ago he was twirling through the ocean.

“That’s not my name,” Lovolu—because he _is_ Lovolu, he was always Lovolu, and now that he knows that, he can’t be anything else—says.

“Okay,” Jaskier says. His eyes are brimming with tears, his hand is shaking in the air. He sits back on his heels and doesn’t try to get closer to Lovolu. “Okay. I—alright. What _is_ your name?”

Lovolu takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He’s safe. He’s in the mage’s house with Jaskier. The net, the box, the knife—those have all crumpled to dust or rusted into nothing, by now. The fishermen taken by old age, the master witchers taken by the sacking of Kaer Morhen. None of them can hurt him anymore.

(Except for Vesemir. Except for Vesemir, and that’s a grief that punches the air right out of his aching lungs. Later. He can turn over that betrayal later.)

“Lovolu,” he says. The name dances like sparkling wine on his tongue, warm and light. He savors the feeling of its syllables in his mouth, drinks it down and makes it a part of him again. “I’m Lovolu. I’m—it’s Mermish.” 

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.

 _“Oh,”_ he chokes. “Oh gods, oh _fuck,_ you’re—”

Lovolu nods, and Jaskier makes a low, wounded sound. His face pales, making the dark circles under his eyes stand out even starker. He inches forward again, cautiously, like he fears setting off Lovolu’s panic again.

“Your legs,” he says. “The _bath_ , I—” His mouth flaps uselessly, like a fish trying to breathe air. Lovolu stares down at his legs, flaring with pain and wrongness, and now he understands why Vesemir deemed them unfixable. _He’s_ unfixable, muscle carved into the wrong shape and fighting back with agony.

He traces a hand over his kneecap. He’s had his legs for ninety years, and he’s had his legs for two days, and some part of him still expects to feel smooth scales under his fingertips. Some part of him still thinks that this is an awful nightmare, that he’ll wake beneath the waves, whole again.

“Gods, I’m _so sorry,”_ Jaskier says. He’s trembling all over. “I— Can I hug you?”

Lovolu nods again, blinking back tears. This is Jaskier. This is Jaskier, and although his brain aches trying to hold two different lives in it, he knows down to his manufactured bones that Jaskier would never hurt him.

Jaskier slips forward and curls his arms around Lovolu’s back, bringing up one hand to cradle Lovolu’s head and press it down against his shoulder.

Lovolu curls tighter into the embrace, his breath coming in short little huffs. The air feels strange in his lungs, and he reminds himself that he’s been breathing it for decades, that he knows how to exist as a human.

_Does he?_

“We’ll figure this out,” Jaskier murmurs in his ear. “I promise. Whatever you want, we can—”

“Can’t,” Lovolu says. “Can’t. They—they cut me up, they cut me in _half,_ I can’t fix it, I can’t—”

Jaskier’s breath is long and shuddering, and his arms tighten around Lovolu. He rocks them both back and forth, stroking his fingers through Lovolu’s hair.

“I want to go home,” Lovolu says, and it’s such a pointless, childish wish. He’s never going home, he _knows_ he’s never going home, he realized that when he saw his muscles twitching in the air, when he saw his glow squeezed in a witcher’s fist. But he _wants,_ he wants this more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. The ache of the want almost overpowers the pain in his legs, a deep pit yawning in his chest and sucking in everything he is, until he can hardly breathe around it.

“Then we will get you home,” Jaskier promises. “No matter what it takes. We _will_ get you home, Lovolu.”

Hearing his name from another person’s lips—from _Jaskier’s_ lips—it rips the pit open even further, spreading it through his body until it consumes every inch of him. He’s Lovolu. He’s a merman. He has a family. A home.

So many things that he never got to mourn.

Jaskier doesn’t say anything about the tears dripping on his shoulder, and Lovolu ignores the way the saltwater makes his skin sting.

***

They sit like that for a long time, curled together on the mage’s living room floor, Lovolu crying into Jaskier’s shoulder and trying to rearrange the shape of his life in his head. But eventually, when the tears have petered out and his breath has steadied, Jaskier coaxes him to his feet.

“We should talk to Yennefer,” he says. “See if she can help, now that you know what’s wrong.”

Lovolu does not want to watch Yennefer’s eyes flash with sympathy, does not want to hear that he’s stuck like this forever. He’d rather stay here, on the floor, held and hidden and clinging to the barest remnants of hope.

But maybe the hope could blossom into reality.

He doesn’t know what part of him is to blame for that naivety—the witcher who watched a monster turn back into a scared little girl, or the child raised on a healthy dose of fairytales. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to explain his reactions, his thoughts and dreams and fears, for a long, long time, torn apart and stitched back together as he is.

Either way, he lets Jaskier help him up, lets Jaskier duck under his arm when the pain flares in his legs.

“Is it getting worse?” Jaskier asks him.

“Yeah,” Lovolu says through gritted teeth. “Now that I know, I think it’s—it’s like what you said happened when you tried to put me in the water. It’s the reminder of it.”

“Do you think you could walk on your own?” Jaskier says. His worry blankets the air, so thick that Lovolu thinks he might suffocate on it.

“I dunno. Let me—"

He pulls his arm away from Jaskier’s shoulder and takes a wobbly step forward. Another. Another. He only makes it five steps before he’s forced to lean against the wall, panting and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. It _hurts,_ his muscles spasming in protest, his nerves shrieking at their misalignment _._

“Fuck,” he gasps. Jaskier is back at his side, wordlessly taking Lovolu’s weight onto his shoulders.

There’s no way he can fight monsters like this.

And fuck, why is _that_ what he’s worried about? Why is he worried that he can’t live the life he _never fucking chose?_

Together, they shuffle out of the sitting room and into an elegant office. Yennefer is sitting at a desk, scribbling away at a bit of parchment. She looks up when they come in, and is immediately on her feet, waving her hands and sending a chair flying across the room just in time for Lovolu to collapse into it.

She snatches a vial of some sort off the desk and pushes it into Lovolu’s hand.

“Drink,” she orders. “It will mitigate some of the pain.”

“I’ve tried herbs before,” Lovolu protests. “They never help.”

“Were any of them given to you by someone who hurts like you?” she asks with a raised eyebrow. He shakes his head. “Didn’t think so.”

“Do you…?”

“Aretuza,” she says bluntly. Her hand drifts up to graze over her jaw. “Our transformation magic isn’t as powerful but it leaves—traces, sometimes. If the change is extreme enough. Drink.”

He drinks.

The pain doesn’t vanish, but it ebbs slightly, pulling back enough that his legs can be more than just lightning. He sighs, leaning back in the chair and stretching them out ahead of him.

“Did that help?” Jaskier asks, his hands fluttering over Lovolu’s shoulders.

“Yeah,” he says. And then, to Yennefer: “thanks.”

“I’ll add it to what you owe me,” she says, but there isn’t any heat in it, any real demand. “Now, what did you see?”

Right. Back to business.

“I was—” No. “I _am_ a merman.”

Yennefer sucks in a breath through her teeth. Her eyes narrow.

“And how did a merman wind up as an amnesiac witcher?”

“How do you think?”

“Oh, I’m sure I could guess,” she laughs humorlessly. “But I want to hear it from you.”

_The net, the box, the knife._

“I was taken,” he says. “I think they—the witchers—hired a boatful of fishermen to catch them a mer. Don’t know why. Our strength, most likely. Agility. Bit of chaos. A useful template for a witcher.”

If he keeps it to the facts, if he sucks all the emotion out of what was done to him, he can force back the fear still clawing at his brain, the lingering memories of blood and rope and the _plink, plink, plink_ of scales on a stone floor.

Jaskier’s hand tightens around Lovolu’s shoulder. The air is full with the smell of sweat, adrenaline. _Anger._

“Useful,” spits Yennefer. “One day I shall scrub that word from the face of the earth, and the world will be a better place for it.”

Lovolu has nothing to say in response to that, only a fierce agreement burning in his gut. So he just hums, ducking his head so he doesn’t have to see how furious this stranger is on his behalf.

 _If only Vesemir was half as protective—_ stop it.

“May Morrigan favor your cause,” Jaskier murmurs.

“I’ve no need for gods,” Yennefer laughs. “And little need for witchers, either. So. Do you want to stay one?”

Lovolu’s head snaps up.

“You can undo it?” he asks. “You can make me—you can give me back my tail?”

_Soaring through the ocean and exploring every depth and **belonging.**_

“What kind of mage would I be if I couldn’t?” she says. She turns back to the desk, busying herself with a pile of parchment. “Go wait in the sitting room. I’ll bring the potion out when it’s ready.”

***

Yennefer’s couch is spacious and comfortable, and Lovolu folds himself into it gratefully, Jaskier following to curl up against him. Lovolu drapes an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, drinking in his warmth, his scent, the long-since-memorized feeling of his body.

It will feel different, after. They won’t be able to cuddle together in a warm bed and hide from the rest of the world. They won’t be able to sit like this, bodies molded together so easily, like Jaskier’s shoulders were made as a resting place for Geralt’s arm. Sex will certainly be different, and different means a long, frustrating period of re-learning.

Everything will be different.

If it’s there at all.

“Do you—?” Lovolu swallows. He’s terrified to ask this question. Like he won’t ever learn the answer, if he doesn’t. “Do you want to stay with me? If this works?”

Jaskier burrows deeper into Lovolu’s side.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks. “I—I’d understand, if you wanted to shed all of these years. I’d understand if you never wanted to speak to another human again, if you never wanted to come within ten miles of shore. What we did to you—”

“You did nothing,” Lovolu says, “Nothing but help.”

Jaskier sighs, shuddering and soft. He squirms around so that he’s facing Lovolu. His eyes are wide and watery, and they search Lovolu’s face like they hope to find something in it.

“I want to stay,” he says at last. He leans forward and brushes a kiss over Lovolu’s lips. “I want you,” he mumbles against his mouth. “Happy.”

Lovolu closes his eyes.

“I want to be happy,” he whispers back, like he’s sharing a terrible secret.

“Good,” Jaskier says, pulling back. He thumbs over Lovolu’s jaw. “Then we’re on the same page, my darling.”

Lovolu brings a hand up to cup Jaskier’s, pressing it harder into his cheek.

“I have some money saved up,” Jaskier says. “Wherever your home is—I can buy, or build, maybe, a cottage there? On the coast. And I’ll have to leave, sometimes, go to events and little tours, you know, make sure my reputation doesn’t die, but—”

“You’d do that for me?” Lovolu asks, cutting through the rambling plans. Jaskier’s wanderlust is almost as strong as a witcher’s, and the thought of him committing to a _permanent home,_ just for Lovolu—

Well. It makes him wish they were somewhere a bit more private than a stranger’s living room.

“I’d do so many things for you.”

Lovolu surges forward into a deeper kiss, trying to pour everything he’s ever felt for Jaskier into it. Jaskier jumps in surprise, but settles into it easily, following the motions of Lovolu’s lips like they’re dancers treading well-memorized steps.

They break apart after a long minute, and Jaskier presses his forehead against Lovolu’s.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you.”

Geralt had never been able to say the words back.

“I love you,” Lovolu says, and it’s the easiest thing in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Mermish translations:
> 
> "Lovolulu, genevoga" = "Darling Starlight, sleep."
> 
> "La mevoga lu" = "Get me out!"
> 
> "La zebevoga" = "Let me go!"


End file.
